Yours Must Ransom Me
by MlleClaudine
Summary: Why Lenara left... Dax/Kahn, but not quite as you might expect. Takes place during and around and considerably before "Rejoined" and also presumes that the reader remembers roughly the sequence of events in the episode; hope it doesn't get too confusing. Sorry for the turbulence, Paramount execs; all Trills have been returned to a fully upright and locked position.
1. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 1

Out of the corner of my eye I can see my colleagues exchange glances. Hanor and Aruel say nothing, though, ostensibly studying the data the team has gathered over the past week.

The data! We've made stupendous progress; the artificial wormhole experiment had been far more successful than I could have even hoped for. With a slight suppression in the phase variance of the generated tetryon field, even the near-disaster that had almost destroyed the _Defiant_ could be averted the next time...

There would not be a next time, I forcibly remind myself. Not for me, at least, or anyway not under the same circumstances.

Circumstances. Now there's an understatement.

Would she think me a coward, unfeeling, a hypocrite? No. She would not, and that was the worst of it.

Rubbing my temples helps a bit, but not enough to dispel the tension headache that had settled behind my eyes even before we had left the station. _Think about something else, anything else. Calm, you are calm. The air you breathe out sinks into the floor and you become lighter and lighter..._ Gradually I become aware of a delicious, familiar spicy scent.

I open my eyes to look up at my big little brother. He smiles as he holds out to me a large steaming mug.

The roughhewn sandstone rasps pleasantly against my palms, imparting its heat to my hands. I blow a puff of air across the murky surface of the liquid to activate the spores, then sniff the rich fruity tones with their hint of muskiness. "Mmm... just right. Where the hell did you manage to find real balso at this time of year?"

"Er." Bejal shifts on his feet. "Had it in cryo at home. Brought it along to celebrate..."

No need to finish the sentence. Despite the experiment's stunning success, there would be no celebration.

I try to lighten the mood a bit. "Rather presumptuous of you, wasn't it? What if we had failed utterly and were slinking back in disgrace, our reputations in shambles, with no means of duplicating the results and, the gods forbid, no hope of further funding?"

Silence. "You did what you had to do, Lenara," he replies, to what I had not said, briefly resting his hand on my shoulder. With that, he leaves, ducking through the doorway of the lab.

_You did what you had to do._

Not, "You did the right thing," or, "It was for the best." He knows better than to say that out loud, though I know that that's what he's thinking. On some level he does understand, as does Hanor, but fundamentally he cannot _know. _And I can no more explain it to him than I could describe telepathy to the mindblind.

I set the computer reenactment of the experimental data to run on continuous replay and let my brain subconsciously absorb the patterns of equations while the contents of the mug at my elbow slowly cool...

* * *

"Have you _completely_ lost your mind?"

Certainly a novel way to start the day. Hadn't even had my kalaba yet, and there was my research partner practically bursting through the vidcomm, straining so far forward at his desk that his image was distorted onscreen. We had worked together for the better part of ten years; not exactly friends, we knew one another well. It would take something cataclysmic for him to be this perturbed. "And a good morning to you, Hanor." I saluted him with a honeycake that was still semisolid from the thermovect and took a big bite.

He gathered himself into some semblance of his usual calm. "I'm sorry, Lenara, your message just caught me off guard. Requesting that the initial run be carried out at DS9... are you sure that's wise?"

"Wise? It's essential!" On the sibilant a fat crumb flew onto the screen right where the tip of his nose was and his eyes crossed as he inadvertently examined it; stifling the urge to laugh, I wiped it off. "The Bajoran wormhole is the only known stable wormhole in existence. We have to take telemetry from it in conjunction with our assays. See if we've truly discovered a new principle or are simply reproducing a common mechanism."

Hanor's gaze did not quite meet mine. "You know what I mean."

"Space-sickness acting up again? You know, that funny little buzzing device you tried last trip makes a really nice -– "

"Lenara!"

I sighed. "I know, Hanor, I'm sorry. It's just that I honestly can't see what the fuss is about."

"Can't see... You mean, other than the fact that reassociation is one of the oldest prohibitions in the book? And that your former spouse happens to be a member of the senior staff aboard that station, and that you would be working in close proximity with her for over a week? No, I can't imagine why there would be any 'fuss' at all."

"Emphasis on _working_, Doctor Pren. The Commission know that I've communicated with Dax exactly once in the last ninety years, and that since then I've had no contact with or even knowledge of it."

Not exactly true. Jadzia diKaela's face had been all over the newsnets when she'd been joined to Dax; washing out of and then being reaccepted into the initiate program was an unheard-of event. And for about three years now, keeping an eye out for the stream of journal articles that issued from DS9's science officer had become a hangnail of a habit; they covered a variety of arcana ranging from the bizarre mating habits of a species of Bajoran amphibian to strategic analyses of the indescribable Ferengi game of Tongo.

"So personal interest had nothing whatsoever to do with your decision."

"This is a scientific mission, remember? I'm not into resurrecting the ghosts of century-old passions."

Hanor's lips thinned. "Then you won't mind if I lead the team and run the tests on my own. What better way to be sure they're completely impartial? Think of it as a double-blind trial. You could take a vacation -– "

"Dammit, Hanor, this is _my_ project, _my_ theories and, may I remind you, _my_ fucking year and a half spent kissing government ass to get the funding for this little jaunt. I'll be damned if I'll rot on a beach while someone else oversees the results of my work!"

His head rocked back and to one side. Not used to outbursts like that from me, I supposed; for that matter, neither was I. "Lenara, the Symbiosis Commission -– "

"Has no jurisdiction over the Science Ministry."

"I realize that, but they still have approval for public domain funding allocated to Ministry projects."

"Which I've just received. Credit transfer went through early this morning."

"I see." A cool pause. "Thank you for informing me."

I felt a shiver of guilt. His stake in this mission was nearly as big as mine, after all, and if the Commission had refused... "I'm sorry, Hanor, I should have told you right away. But the fiduciary subcommittee were in session well into the night, and -–"

"Lenara. It's all right. I just want to make sure you know what you're doing."

"Hey, I'm a big girl. And a very old worm. You'd think that after twelve hundred years and over twenty lifetimes the galaxy would be simply crawling with my former lovers and family members, but I've somehow managed to avoid stepping on them until now."

Hanor smiled tightly; he never did quite appreciate my sense of humor. But the set of his mouth relaxed by degrees, and at last he eased back into a normal position in his chair. "Of course. It just seems as though you've spent an awful lot of time and thought justifying how insignificant this meeting will be."

Touché. "I can handle it. Trust me."

After some comparatively desultory conversation during which we hashed out a few administrative details, Hanor signed off. I checked my transmission queue for messages. There was only one, an official communiqué from the Commission stating that Bejal had been recalled from his teaching post at Taroonin University and assigned to my team. "I am sure you will agree, Dr. Kahn," said Legislator Mardel, a balding, pinch-mouthed man who had been one of the more vocal dissenters against my petition, "that the mission will benefit from Dr. Otner's expertise."

Expertise in handholding, maybe. They knew perfectly well Bejal's field was xenomicrobiology, not temporal wave-particle energy dynamic theory. What were they thinking? He would be qualified only for tasks that could be handled just as well or better by a specially trained tech. Too bright not to know why he was there, he would feel out of place, once again eclipsed by his sister. But there was nothing to be done about it, and really, it would be nice to spend some time with him; we seldom saw one another these days.

So I would have my shadow, but I would be allowed to go, and that was the important thing.


	2. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 2

An annoyingly pleasant computer voice welcomed us to Federation Station Deep Space Nine and announced that we had docked at Upper Pylon One. Red lights on the comm panel blinked to green as the airlock pressure equalized. Hanor offered me a hand with my bag, but I shook my head at him and hung back; shrugging, he exited as the heavy door rolled aside. "I'm Dr. Hanor Pren of the Trill Science Ministry," I heard him say to someone; a female voice answered. Bejal lifted his eyebrows and gestured with exaggerated courtliness. I made a face at him, then followed him through the airlock in time to hear the woman say, "And this is our Science Officer, Commander Dax."

Pren introduced us in turn and I nodded mechanically. My peripheral vision took in the other two officers, a slim auburn-haired Bajoran and a massive glowering Klingon, but my gaze locked on to the third. I found myself moving forward, drawn toward shining blue eyes.

Dax took my hand in hers. It was cold, of course. Stupid to expect otherwise, but for a microsecond I was faintly disappointed. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has." _Oh, astound the woman with your eloquence, Lenara._

Vaguely aware that she'd been holding on to my hand a little too long, a little too tightly, I reluctantly freed it and willed myself not to look back as Lieutenant Worf led the way to my team's quarters.

Half my mind paid enough attention to the Klingon's perfunctory tour to be able to ask equally perfunctory questions as we traversed the Promenade. The other half fizzed along, trying to work out why my heart was pounding so hard I could feel the pulse in my eyeballs.

It was not simply a matter of mutual attraction, though certainly she was beautiful; the netcast vids had not done her justice. And the grace of her movements and the strength in those hands hinted at a more robust physicality than her appearance might suggest.

No, it was infinitely more troubling than that. Kahn had known Dax at once; even without the telltale spots marking her as a Trill there would have been no question as to who she was. I could hardly have ignored the visceral pull of their brief telepathic connection -– which meant that Jadzia had felt it too.

It was going to be a long week.

* * *

A muted chirp intruded into my jumble of thoughts, pausing the brush midstroke through a length of hair. "Come in."

Bejal entered, stiff and self-conscious in his formal tunic. "Aren't you ready yet? We're supposed to be there in five minutes."

"Darling brother, haven't you been to enough official functions to know that if you actually show up on time you get collared by the dullest person present and wind up having to make painful small talk with him for the rest of the evening?" But I hurried through the rest of my toilet and, despite my misgivings, the Captain's quarters were overflowing with guests when we arrived just past the hour. Most of my team were already there, as were a number of Starfleet and Bajoran officers and Sisko himself, who broke away from a small group and came over to greet us.

"Welcome, Dr. Kahn, Dr. Otner." His voice was a beautifully modulated baritone, his manner impeccable, and unlike most of his officers he looked right at home in his dress uniform. An impressive man, well suited to command.

"Captain. I want to thank you for letting us carry out our experiments here; I can't tell you how valuable the data will be for our project."

"It is entirely my pleasure. Creating an artificial wormhole sounds intriguing, and of course if you do succeed it will have profound effects on space travel as we know it. Besides, the old man would've killed me if I'd refused."

"The 'old man'?"

He ducked his head, looking suddenly like a small embarrassed boy; an amusing reaction in such an imposing figure. "Curzon Dax was a very close friend of mine. It's a little joke between Jadzia and me."

I laughed. "I never did meet him. He was always off-planet on some diplomatic mission or other and our paths never crossed."

"Quite the hell-raiser, from what I hear," Bejal said.

"That's putting it mildly." Sisko smiled, a flash of startling warmth that transformed his stern face. "Fortunately for me, our science officer is a bit more responsible and a lot less impulsive. Not that that doesn't keep her from showing up late to parties."

I had noticed. "Torias was incapable of being punctual; maybe all that time I was yelling at him, I should have been blaming the symbiont."

Both pairs of eyes narrowed in concert at the mention of Torias' name. "Here's your coordinating crew, Dr. Kahn," said Sisko, motioning to Worf and Kira. "I believe you've all met. If you'll pardon me, I've got to do the Captain thing." He nodded, then moved to the center of the floor, his mellifluous voice soon ringing overhead.

We acknowledged polite applause at the appropriate times and chatted about the mission, about Klingons, about nothing in particular. I concentrated on staying focused on the conversation, but even without seeing Bejal slide a look over my shoulder and surreptitiously track someone keeping to the periphery of the room I would have known when _she_ had arrived.

She was here.

"Dr. Kahn?"

A tap on my elbow. To my chagrin I realized I hadn't heard a word Kira had said. "I'm so sorry, Major. About the staffing requirements -– "

Leaning toward me, she murmured, "Dr. Kahn. If your eyes rotate any farther you'll be looking through the back of your head." Kira smiled, wryly sympathetic. "Go on, it's been so long and she's dying to talk to you. It's not like you haven't got a hundred chaperones in here; what could it hurt?"

Oh, please, not another romantic. But Kira was right; besides, avoiding her would only stir up even more gossip._ And the Elders would have no lack for witnesses if they decided to call an ad hoc standards infraction hearing_, I thought sardonically, drifting as casually as possible toward the buffet table where Dax had moored herself. Everyone, even the Bajorans, turned to watch me curiously as I passed. Was there anyone on board the station who didn't know? Gods, they must have had a seminar.

Evidently there was something fascinating at the bottom of that serving dish. But then her posture shifted subtly and there was an audible catch in her breath.

"Well, this looks wonderful." _Lenara, we have **got** to work on your opening lines..._

"Mmhmm."

"I take it most of this is Bajoran."

Still not looking at me, Dax pointed out certain dishes, which smelled appetizing but looked mostly like mush in varying shades of beige. "Hasperaat... no, hasperaat, moba fruit, and veklava."

"Of course, I'm not the least bit hungry."

"Neither am I."

I peeked over my shoulder. A few frank stares, several dozen quickly averted heads -– whoops, there went a drink into a potted tree. Ordinarily this would have been quite funny. "But I suppose we should load up our plates, since the whole room is watching us."

One eyebrow swooped up eloquently as she made her own leisurely surveillance. "Quite an audience."

"Seems a shame to disappoint them. Maybe we should do something."

"Well, we could get into a screaming match and start throwing things at each other."

"Not bad. Or I suppose we could throw ourselves at each other, profess our undying love for each other in complete disregard for Trill society," I found myself saying.

She smiled. "Dr. Pren would probably have a heart attack."

I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Forget about him, my brother's head would explode. He's been a nervous wreck ever since we arrived."

"I know the feeling," she muttered.

"Well, I'll tell you what I told him. We're both mature adults and we can handle this." _Right, Lenara. That's why you're blathering and acting about as sophisticated as a schoolgirl on her first date_.

"I agree completely. It'll be fine."

I took another look. "They're watching us again."

"I know. I guess we'll probably have to get used to it."

"Well," I said, loudly this time, for the benefit of any credulous ears that might be within range, remote as that possibility was, "thank you, Commander Dax. I appreciate your insightful commentary on Bajoran cuisine."

"My pleasure, Dr. Kahn."

I crossed the room, a little more assured. Jadzia certainly knew how to play the discretion game. Possibly a legacy from Curzon, though from all accounts his approach to diplomacy hadn't so much pushed the envelope as stretched it to molecular thinness. Certainly this calm, centered self-control would have been utterly alien to Torias. When I reached the far corner I allowed myself another glance back.

And felt a palpable blow in my gut. Her face blazed with a possessiveness and naked longing I knew down to my bones. I wrenched my eyes away.

The rest of the evening we spent resolutely apart in an oddly formal dance choreographed by acute awareness of the other's presence.


	3. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 3

The door alert sounded, giving me a flimsy but welcome excuse to toss the datapadd aside. Slumping back into a pile of cushions on the sofa, I rubbed my temples. "Come in. If you expect me to reschedule you too, you overgrown bush ape, I'm going to throw you into an airlock with the rest of the crew and depressurize it myself."

"I surrender!" Definitely not my brother's voice.

I flung my arms over my face in mock shame and peered between my elbows. "Hello, Jadzia."

She plunked herself down at the other end of the sofa and crossed long legs on the low table in front of it, clearing the corner with a careful nudge from her ankle. "Here I find you making diabolical plans to do away with your people when you should be out celebrating with them. No wonder they say that science has lost its allure."

"Very funny. DS9 keeps to Bajoran time and the shorter day is causing all kinds of problems. Most of the team aren't experienced spacers; I'm having to work out staggered shifts between them and the Starfleet personnel so no one falls asleep in the middle of something critical."

Jadzia snorted. "Good luck. I've been here for almost four Terran years and I still haven't totally adjusted. I usually wind up playing Tongo at Quark's or running experiments for most of the night and taking naps in my lab during the day. Half the station crew believe I never sleep."

"You always were a night hawk, darling," I said without thinking.

"Well," she said after the briefest of pauses, "thank goodness for raktajino. I think I may have replaced my blood with it several times over."

Silently I thanked her for her tact. "You actually drink that stuff? I've heard it can be used to strip old molyenamel off duraplast."

"You'd need to dilute it first."

"Ugh. I'll take your word for that. Was there something you wanted?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, about tomorrow's trial. You've established that you can sustain the artificial wormhole's integrity, even if only briefly. What would you think about sending in a Class IV probe once you've got the matrix stabilized? We can tune the shields to emulate a small craft's signature; it'll give us a more realistic picture of how your wormhole will behave when an actual ship goes through."

I did some quick calculations in my head. "That's a good idea. We'd be skipping ahead a few steps but we'll get a lot better telemetry and that would have been the next variable anyway. The problem is, there's about a tenfold difference in materials cost using a Class IV probe versus a Class I and I'm not sure we could get special dispensation from the Science Ministry in time to requisition one."

"The hell with them." Mischievous glee played over her face, tip-tilting the corners of her mouth. "I might have a way to, ah, stretch your budget a little."

"What do you mean?"

"Er... you have to promise not to ask a whole lot of questions, but I just happen to have a Class IV probe -– one of the old, really bulky ones, mind you -– umm... available."

"Jadzia Dax, what did you do, hijack a Starfleet vessel?"

"Mm, not quite. You know," she said, admiring the finish on her fingernails and carefully buffing a spot with her sleeve, "playing Tongo can be a very useful and rewarding hobby."

"I'm beginning to think I should take it up myself. But is it legally yours?"

"In the same sense that it was legal for the Ferengi I won it from to salvage the contents of a decommissioned Federation supply barge that had been designated for detonation."

"Meaning he actually sneaked on board a ship full of live mines -– "

"No sneaking involved. The crew had stripped nearly everything out of there and left a warning beacon, so I guess they felt any further safeguards were unnecessary."

" -– and defused them just so he could pick over the contents?"

"Well, he didn't actually defuse them, just -– "

"Did his shopping then ran like hell?"

"Sort of."

I blew out a long breath. "That is amazingly stupid... but I have to admit it would take a lot of guts."

"The Ferengi are like that; they'll take even the biggest risk if they feel there's a profit in it somewhere."

"You admire them?"

"Well, not necessarily the mercenary -– not to mention misogynistic -– aspects of their culture... but yes, I do. I like their willingness to lay everything out on the line in pursuit of their goals."

"Seems like I've heard that somewhere." I gave her an arch look, to which she responded with an absurd batting of her eyelashes. "So what did he get out of the deal?"

She shrugged. "I didn't turn him in. And I pretended not to notice while he made fleghur-mox with my knee under the table all through the next round."

"Jadzia, it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but don't you think someone's going to wonder how a large and rather sensitive piece of Federation property wound up being used in a Trill science experiment?"

"Obsolete Federation property. Why should they? They're certainly not interested in how it's being used now."

"How it's... I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Lenara, anyone who had bothered to trace it could easily have found out it's been sitting in my quarters for months." Jadzia gave me a thoroughly naughty grin; for a few fleeting seconds I was joltingly reminded of Torias.

"In your quarters?"

"It makes a great coffee table and I'll admit that I'm somewhat attached to it, but I think I could sacrifice it in the interests of research. Say the word and it's yours."

I had to laugh.


	4. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 4

_There is nothing going on._

_ We're both mature adults and we can handle this._

The evidence would seem to indicate otherwise, Dr. Kahn.

The windows slanted outward, away from where I sat crosslegged on the floor. I leaned forward to brace my forehead against space-cold transparency. The awkward angle strained my neck and lower back savagely, but only the faint fog from my breath spoiled the illusion that I was floating in star-strewn blackness, cradled between the vast limbs of the station that thrust away into space far below me.

I'd stormed off to her quarters to vent righteous indignation and wound up in her arms -– putting up about as much resistance as a dulcefly to honey.

The stupefying softness of her lips, foreign and yet fumbling toward an utterly familiar rhythm. The scent of her enveloping me, a hint of perfume overlying the subtly different yet still recognizable essence. The long-dormant link awakening, intensifying into an electrifying roar that threatened to consume us both.

Breaking the kiss left me gasping, trying not to cling to her while I found my balance. Somehow I managed to stumble from the room, feeling like an errant comet escaping the inexorable embrace that would plunge it into the heart of the sun.

No point in staying mad at Bejal, who after all had only pointed out in his not-quite-tactful way what was apparently glaringly obvious to everyone but me. The very vehemence of my reaction to his comments should have been a warning in itself.

It didn't help that Dax didn't seem to be conflicted at all. No hesitation, no doubt, only an unequivocal willingness to throw herself -– and me, along with her -– off the cliff. And just now, when she had moved to kiss me, I found I was terrified not by what she was doing, but by how much I wanted her to do it.

How the hell was I going to get through the rest of the week, when every look she gave me felt like a physical caress, setting off small tremors down my spine and turning my knees to water? And with my too-zealous brother now scrutinizing our every move...

I imagined the Commission hearing that would be called if we were found out. _"We have assembled in order to investigate the charge that the party of the first part did violate past-joined protocol by sucking face with the party of the second part. The defendants seek clemency on the grounds that no tongue was involved."_

Despite myself, I snickered. "It's not funny, Lenara," I said aloud. Maybe Hanor was right about my sense of humor.

Twelve hundred years' aggregate experience disclosed no acceptable basis on which to rationalize what had just happened. In twenty-two lifetimes, never once had I felt compelled to disobey that most inviolable of the tenets I had sworn to uphold as a joined Trill. Arrogant to assume that I never would, but reassociation truly had never tempted me before. Preposterous to consider it now -– after all, Jadzia Dax was essentially a complete unknown, even though, as she said herself, she and I had far more in common than Nilani and Torias ever did -– but that the idea should even occur to me was profoundly disturbing.

And what disturbed me more than anything was that, analyze it though I might, I could not identify the extent to which the feelings, impulses and decisions leading up to this point belonged to Kahn or to Lenara, or to the even murkier amalgamation of both.

Damn her, and damn me. Whoever the hell that might be now.


	5. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 5

Nilani was to pass Kahn to me after an extraordinarily long hosting, having lived almost as long as an unjoined. According to custom, convergence was observed the day before the implantation ceremony was to take place.

I met her in one of the luxurious flats the Commission maintained for departing hosts. A silent attendant admitted me through the massive door, a gargantuan wooden anachronism that actually opened on hinges and swept majestically home with a muffled thud. The stone floor of the entranceway amplified the sound of my footsteps, syncopated testament to my nervousness, which were abruptly silenced when I reached the carpeted greatroom. Glancing around, I took in the high ceilings, the well-appointed furnishings, the curving walls with their wide windows that afforded views of the park and gardens below. The effect was elegant, tasteful -– and utterly impersonal.

"Not a bad place to hold a deathwatch, don't you think?" An antigrav servo whined faintly as my placeholder emerged from a darkened corner hallway. The support chair whispered to a stop. For a long moment we said nothing and simply regarded one another.

Nearly a hundred and twenty years old, Nilani Kahn was spare, frail, her skin waxily translucent in the sunlight slanting across her face. The trembling hands that manipulated the chair's controls were ropy with milky blue veins, gnarled but also curiously smooth, like water‑polished knots of driftwood. But the wide golden‑brown eyes were still clear and their expression suggested that there was nothing at all fragile about the mind in the failing body.

"I... wouldn't call it -– "

"Oh, come, come, no use in bandying euphemisms about. You wouldn't be here if you didn't know that by the day after tomorrow my body will have begun to shut down and that on the following day I will be quite dead."

The condescending tone irked me. "Very well. Then yes, I suppose that if one is going to die this is as pleasant a place as any to do it in."

"That's better. Sit, please." She indicated a large overstuffed armchair, which turned out to be as comfortable as it looked; if I'd been alone with a pile of litpadds at hand I would have willingly spent the rest of the day curled up in it. The bright eyes narrowed, inspecting me at length. "You're very young."

"Twenty-three next eighthmonth. You were almost as young when you were joined."

"Yes. They like to do that with the older symbionts."

Again an awkward silence. I tried another approach. "I feel very fortunate to have been chosen -– "

"It's an immense honor, you're humbled and thrilled, awed by the chance to be connected to so much history, and so on, and so on." The voice could have sucked the water from a Breen saltflat.

"I did mean it, you know," I said carefully.

"Yes, I do know." Something that might be called a smile corrugated one corner of her mouth. "You've been well trained. I expect you're also highly intelligent, consistently in the top rank of the initiate program, mature for your age, psychologically stable, independent yet sociable, sober yet not a prig, modest and unassuming yet not spineless. But of course you would be -– they wouldn't give Kahn to you otherwise."

I stared. "I'm sorry, have I offended you?"

She appeared not to have heard. "And another bloody scientist. Kahn's had a few dancers, and Varel was a sculptor, though his work was never significantly received beyond his host-lifetime, but most of us have been scientists. Different fields, of course, but you'd think they would learn to liven up the mix a bit."

Her work with her husband Noren Garet in symbiont haptics was renowned, her later detour into quantum nanobiology almost legendary, yet here she was dismissing her accomplishments with the same disregard she had thus far shown me. I had so many questions to ask, so many concerns that I'd hoped she could allay. But there was no way I could share them with this bitter old woman.

At last looking at me rather than through me, she said, somewhat diffidently, "I've some holos -– mostly personal ones, nothing terribly exciting. Would you like to see them?"

I nodded, relieved at the more innocuous direction of our conversation. And even if politeness hadn't prompted me to do so, I would have said yes at the opportunity to get a glimpse at her part of the heritage that was to be mine. Kahn's official file had been made available to me when I'd been accepted, of course, but it told little beyond the sterile facts -– though there were certainly enough of those.

A case sitting on the low glass table housed an old-fashioned holoviewer: statics only, no mocap or even sound. Small containers in the padded inner section held dozens of data chips which proved to be essentially a chronological record of her seven-decade marriage to Garet, the mildmannered unjoined twenty years older than she who had been first her research supervisor and later her partner, in all senses of the term. There was genuine fondness in the cracking voice as she narrated the events depicted, methodically vidding the chips one by one. The date-sequenced images ended abruptly about fifteen years ago, from the time of his death; Nilani, I knew, had gone into virtual seclusion, appearing rarely at scientific symposia to give readings and lectures but otherwise not venturing out in any public sort of capacity.

When we had gone through them all, she hesitated before bringing out one last chip from a separate compartment in the case. She frowned at it, then with a tiny shrug slotted it into place. No explanatory preamble or commentary; with her tacit permission I booted the viewer.

The chip contained not a well-documented series like the others but rather a few holograms from widely disparate settings of a very young Nilani and a darkly handsome laughing young man. They appeared to be totally absorbed with one another; image after image showed them staring into the other's eyes, always touching, sometimes in postures so frankly erotic that suddenly, absurdly, I felt as though I were intruding.

The official file had stated that she'd been married briefly before her marriage to Garet, but there had been only a name and the barest skeleton of a background.

"This... was Torias?"

She did not answer and I thought that perhaps she was ignoring me again. Finally she reached over and tapped in a command to bring up a different holo of the young man, now in a gray flightsuit, poised confidently outside the access hatch of a very ugly squat little ship. "Yes," she said finally. "This was taken the day he died. An hour before, as a matter of fact, or so they tell me."

"Oh!" Her voice and expression gave absolutely no clue as to what she was feeling. "How, ah, how long were you together?"

"Nearly a year. Married as well as core-bonded for most of that."

Nothing in the record indicated that the _symbionts_ had been joined as well. "Not a very long time," I managed to say, stunned.

"No." One quivering finger traced in midair the outline of the smiling face. "Hardly any time at all."

"What happened?"

"The dragon got him." Nilani regarded me wryly, the first hint of humor she'd shown. "No, I'm not going feeble-minded. 'Dragon' was the codename of the shuttlecraft he was testing; as you can see, the name was appropriate. It was to be the prototype for an entirely new line of ships -– new powerplant design, new impulse engine configuration, everything. As usual production was pushed forward far too quickly and they sent it out long before they should have. The stability generators failed immediately after launch; its altitude was so low and it augered in so quickly that he didn't even have time to eject. By the time they reached him he was already brain-dead. But of course as he was so young the Commission hadn't yet begun to consider candidates for a replacement host, so for months afterward while they searched, his body was artificially maintained to support Dax."

"How terrible!"

"Yes. I was allowed to see him only once, immediately after the accident, and then only because there was some problem with Torias' isoboramine level that was affecting the symbiont -– they were afraid that Dax was becoming unstable. So they summoned me, though I'm still not certain what it is they expected. Impossible to connect that broken body with the man I loved. I... don't know how long I went on, but I do remember it ended badly. At some point Dax severed the telepathic link and I found I had been venting my anger and frustration on the poor Guardian who had been acting as liaison." The brown eyes returned from wherever her emotional shipwreck had taken her and focused back on me. "You're not married?"

"Erm, no. Perhaps eventually."

"Any serious relationships?"

This was beginning to sound like just about every conversation I had had with my mother since I'd turned twenty. "Not in some time," I said neutrally.

"Good. Then let me tell you something that will save you a great deal of heartache later." A small, cool hand grasped my forearm with a surprisingly strong grip as she leaned toward me. "You must accept that you cannot fundamentally change anyone, least of all yourself."

"Well... thank you. I'll remember that."

She shook her head brusquely. "Don't humor me, girl. It may not make sense now but it will someday. And I don't think you'll thank me then."


	6. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 6

Why did the Symbiosis Commission have to decorate everything in the same thuddingly dull colors? If that was what you could call brownish gray. Mud gray. Swamptoad-underbelly gray. It was almost as though they had tried to recreate the symbionts' native environment aboveground; as far as Nilani was concerned, they'd succeeded. Perhaps the slugs found it comforting but for the hosts -– at least this particular potential one -– the unbroken monotony of the Institute's main waiting room was just plain depressing. _They could at least give you something to read..._

The long wait and the surroundings were intended to allow her to enter a calm, meditative state, she knew, but for as long as she had been coming to the required interviews she'd been simply bored. This would be the fifth and final session, during which she would learn at last to which symbiont she was to be joined. As before, the chamber was empty. She sighed, wondering yet again if this was some kind of perverse test.

Nilani got up to stretch, flowing smoothly through a series of complicated positions that isolated individual muscle groups in sequence. She had just settled into the Ajano Tree, in which one bent at the waist with one's hands flat on the floor, when she realized she was no longer alone.

As she peered up through her legs she saw a grinning young man, arms akimbo, staring appreciatively at the view her stance -– and the snug-fitting black standard issue jumpsuit -– afforded him. Immediately she stood, swaying a little as the blood rushed from her head, and spun to face him.

The impression of size she'd gotten from her brief upside-down perspective was deceiving: though strongly built, of a dense muscularity, he was hardly taller than she. Bright green eyes crinkled at her.

"Please, don't let me interrupt," said the intruder, who made no effort to wipe the slightly lopsided smile off his face.

Embarrassment at being caught in such an awkwardly vulnerable position prompted her to respond stiffly. "That's quite all right; I'd nearly finished, anyway."

"Don't tell me you're shy! I should think one could find a great many advantages in being so... flexible."

Her face burned. _Damn the man_. "Are you here for a prospect interview, too?"

If anything, the smile got wider. The left side of his mouth lagged microseconds behind the right, and she realized suddenly that he must have had extensive reconstructive facial surgery at some time; they'd done an excellent job but the neurogenic cyberplants always left telltales if you knew what to look for. "Nope. Formal reprimand by the oversight committee. My second, for endangering my symbiont."

She was appalled. "How can you be so nonchalant? If you get another you could be placed under permanent in-house surveillance!"

"Been there, done that," he shrugged. "My symbiont objected, though, and got me sprung."

"Oh." A beat. "What is it that you do, that you put yourself in jeopardy so often?"

"I work for Eshidan Aerospace. I'm a test pilot."

"And the Commission actually let you be joined?" It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

He laughed, clearly pleased. "Well, you see, I sort of neglected to tell them what I intended to do with my astrogation degree when I was an initiate. And then by the time they caught on, it was too late."

"Isn't that a little... irresponsible?"

" 'Foolhardy', 'arrogant' and 'incorrigible,' if the review board are to be believed. Overprotective, stuffy bastards, the lot of them."

"I see. And the traditions and rules we've followed for over a thousand years, those don't mean anything to you?"

"Oh, I just like to get under their skins a little bit. Does 'em a world of good. You'll see, when you're joined. There's being cautious -– but there's also such a thing as being suffocated."

"I see," she said again, as sternly as possible, but something in his spirit resonated irrepressibly with her own.

"Nilani diMiren, the interview committee is ready for you," announced a Guardian who had silently swept into the room.

" 'Nilani.' That's lovely."

A flush coursed through her; the name had rolled off his tongue as though he were tasting it. "Er, thank you. And you are... ?"

He pulled himself up to his full, not very considerable height and bowed, lightly supporting her wrist and bending his dark head to kiss her proffered hand; somehow his bearing and demeanor made the gesture gallant rather than ridiculously theatrical. "Torias Dax, madam, at your service. May I have the honor of your company at dinner this evening?"

"You know perfectly well I can't leave the grounds at night. Good day; it was nice meeting you." She nodded and headed toward the door where the lugubrious Guardian stood waiting.

"The commissary, then," Torias called after her. "Might even be able to stomach their so-called food as long as you're with me, though I'm not sure I can say the same for Dax. I'll be there at 20:00 hours."

"I hate to tell you this, but I don't usually eat until 22:00."

"Then I'll wait."

She didn't answer, though she sneaked a look over her shoulder just before the door whispered closed._ Insolent puppy_. But her hand still burned where he had kissed it, and she was humming when she entered the interview chamber.


	7. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 7

Some wag had long ago fastened a handwritten sign that read SLAG HEAP on the door to the pilots' lounge. Nilani palmed the switchplate and stuck her head in through the entrance. "Hello?"

Her voice echoed off the hard surfaces of the empty room. Sunlight streamed through windows that dominated five of the six walls and gave an almost panoramic view of the shuttlefield. Gray-jumpsuited crewmen swarmed over the only ship in sight, a small birdlike craft that looked as though it were capable of taking flight of its own volition.

No sign of her would-be escort. She looked around, noting the careless detritus that overflowed the tables: dirty dishes, battered datapadds, instruments whose purpose she couldn't begin to guess at. Sitting in one of the low egg-shaped chairs after judiciously brushing off the seat, she picked up one of the padds and tabbed through it; some kind of manual, it was full of diagrams and charts and sections with titles like "EJ200 Engine Vibration Measurement System," "Landing and Ground Effects Estimation of Unmanned Reentry" and "The In2C Group II Hawkeye."

"Not exactly light reading for the beach, is it?"

She glanced up to see Torias Dax watching her from the doorway.

"Hello," he said, ambling over. "Here. Those chairs have a way of molding your rear end to them; they're almost impossible to get out of on your own." Nilani hitched herself forward and discovered he wasn't exaggerating. She took his outstretched hand and was startled by its warmth -– unusual in a joined Trill.

"Thank you. You're right; this won't make the bestsellers lists any time soon. Do you really have to perform 136 separate tests for each shuttle?"

"Yep. Have to write reports on every single one of those tests, too, which is the real killer. Really quite dull sometimes."

"Stalling an experimental craft in low orbit to see how it behaves on manual reentry is 'dull'? I'm not sure I'd like to know what your idea of 'exciting' is!"

"Mmm. I'd say... about 162 centimeters tall... hair like molten bronze... eyes the color of sunlit topaz... skin of palest honey... blushes furiously when complimented... "

_Damn the man!_ she thought, but had to smile. "Is that your ship outside?" she asked, pointing to the launchpad.

"Unfortunately, yes."

" 'Unfortunately'? It's beautiful!"

"Beautiful, yes; spaceworthy, no. The designers seem to have put all their efforts into aesthetics and none into performance."

"What's wrong with it?"

"For starters, she's underpowered and unevenly shielded. Shakes like you wouldn't believe before reaching escape velocity and heats up faster than a clogged plasma injector on the way back in."

"You mean you've actually flown this thing before?"

"Oh, sure. They've made a few modifications based on my recommendations, but not nearly enough."

"But -– " she was incredulous. "But _why_?"

"Because the big money's in transitionals, shuttlecraft that can handle both atmospheric and space flight. So all the aeronautics design companies are churning out ships by the bargeload, all angling for a share of the market -– whether or not their shuttles are up to the performance requirement specs. That one," Torias gestured toward the airfield, "actually wouldn't be too bad as either a low altitude transport or a cap ship's runabout, but the shield configurations are too inflexible for the stratotropospheric pressure gradient and -– "

"No, I mean, why would you put yourself in that kind of danger? Surely you can refuse to fly it if there's such a risk?"

"I could, I suppose. But then where's the fun in that?"

* * *

"So what did you say?" Dr. Garet's voice sounded disinterested as he delicately extracted the supernatant from several rows of test tubes with a micropipette and transferred it to a flask, but she knew he was listening; he often surprised her by quoting word for word even her most casual throwaway remarks.

"What else could I say? I said he was crazy and a fool and I was damned if I was going to stay around while he turned himself into a smoking crater in the ground and stomped out of there in high dudgeon."

"But you watched."

She frowned, then sighed. "Yes, I did, from the observation tower. So did most of the ground crew, who all but worship him; they said there wasn't another pilot on the base who would go near the bloody thing. It flew exactly the way he said it would, burned out its controls at the orbit's apogee and rained down on the ocean in tiny pieces. And when the recovery team reached his ejection pod, he was laughing."

"Laughing? He's insane!"

"Can't be. The Committee would never have allowed him to be joined." Reluctantly, she smiled at the memory. "He just seemed so... so alive."

"Hmph. Won't be for long if he keeps that up." Carefully setting a stir bar tumbling slowly in the flask, Garet gave up any pretense of indifference and straightened up to look at her directly. "What in the world do you see in him, anyway? One of these days he's going to find himself either decommissioned or dead." He peered at the expression on her face and sighed. "Hopeless. You're absolutely hopeless. You realize, of course, that if the Commission finds out you've been seeing him that they'll never let you continue the relationship once you're joined, don't you?"

"I just met the man, Noren, it's not like I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. They won't need to know."

"Oh, they won't? Nilani, you're about to be joined to one of the first successfully implanted symbionts. Hundreds of monographs have been written on Kahn alone. You don't think you won't be under a microscope from now on?" With his round face, unruly tufts of hair and wide-eyed expression, Garet looked just like an affronted cave owl. "Don't tell me you object to the Commission's choice?"

"Noren! Of course not, it's an incredible honor! It's just... why Kahn? Why me?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Teleologically, because Kahn needs a new host. Psychologically and physiologically, because you obviously fit the parameters for a suitable replacement. Ideologically, because the many-joined symbionts are usually given to young hosts, to balance out the one's life-experience with the other's energy. But you already knew that."

"I can't help thinking about something Torias said, about being suffocated by the responsibilities and obligations of being a host. I mean, if it's that bad for the younger symbionts, what will it be like when I'm joined to Kahn?"

"What could Dax possibly know about a matter of this significance? It's only -– what, two or three hundred years old? Hasn't even completed its host cycle yet, I believe."

"Dax has had several very respectable hosts, you know."

"Yes, and whatever it did to deserve that young rapscallion I cannot imagine."

Nilani rolled her eyes. "You sound like a father booga clucking over his wandering chick." Garet pursed his lips slightly, a sign of annoyance, and she checked her impulse to tease him. "Come on, I know my place in the overall scheme of things. I'm just having fun -– it's kind of nice being with someone who isn't for once trying to mold me into the perfect vessel." Glancing up, she caught sight of the chrono on the wall. "Oh! I'm late. Can we finish with this lot tomorrow, Noren? I'm having dinner with him this evening."

"By all means," Garet said dryly, watching as she emptied her pockets of their seemingly endless contents and shucked the labcoat itself, haphazardly tossing it over her desk chair. "Mr. Dax evidently must not be denied."

Waving over her shoulder, she barely noted him shaking his head as he turned his attention to shutting down the nanosequencer.


	8. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 8

A barrage of grunts and moans reverberated throughout the gymnasium as Torias carried out his daily self-imposed torture. He had a tendency toward heaviness -– a disadvantage in superlight craft, whose payloads in atmospheric conditions were often severely contingent on weight limits -– which he deplored, but rather than cut down on either his eating or drinking he preferred instead to increase the intensity of his exercise regimen to a nearly violent level whenever he gained a kilo or two.

It was difficult to watch, Nilani thought, and yet fascinating. He started with a run, sprinting endless laps around the gym's track, then and up and down the stairs flanking the spectator area; thus warmed up, next came a punishing gymnastic routine that emphasized strength and flexibility; then a session of something he called plyometrics, explosive bursts of odd-looking movements that in the end left him sobbing for breath, sweat sheeting from his body like rain.

A door hissed open and a loose knot of pilots straggled out from the siegeball court, good-naturedly ragging each other over the outcome of their match. The swaggering banter halted abruptly as they caught sight of Torias, body held perfectly vertical by outstretched arms in quivering tension between a pair of rings suspended from the ceiling. Slowly, he pulled his legs up until they pointed upward at a sharp angle to his body, then pressed smoothly from the V into a handstand. He held the position for a moment, then flung himself into a series of sweeping loops, spinning faster and faster, at times even letting go the rings and completing a twisting somersault in the air before catching them again.

"Fucking son of a bitch," said a reluctantly admiring voice. The pilot's immediate neighbor backhanded him in the stomach, jerking her chin toward the corner where Nilani was perched on a pile of mats. Almost in unison, the group turned to look, waved sheepishly and then moved off, the ribbing and catcalls starting up once more out in the corridor.

Nilani by this time had at least a nodding acquaintance with all of the base pilots. This particular goup comprised one of Eshidan's most tightly cohesive squadrons; though none of its members would have anything to do with Torias, they were unfailingly if distantly polite to her. It still surprised her that most of them were married, and that many had small children. She had always supposed that a profession as hazardous as theirs would attract thrillseekers and loose cannons, but though they came from varied backgrounds they were remarkably similar in character, tending to be solemn, cool-headed, conservative, austere in their habits.

Save, of course, for one glaring exception. "No wonder they dislike you so," she murmured aloud.

"Good thing he's a talented bastard with ice water in his veins. Otherwise they wouldn't put up with him for a red-hot minute." Jonah Beauchamp, Eshidan's sole Federation employee and Torias' best friend, folded his lanky frame beside her, planting elbows on knees that splayed comically in the air.

She smiled, leaning over to bump him with her shoulder and squeeze his hand. "Hello, Beach."

"Miz Nilani," he said, dragging out the syllables and adding diphthongs that normally didn't exist, which always made her laugh.

She shook her head. "I just get so angry at them sometimes. You'd think that these people would value ability over anything else."

"Well, sure, they do, but they're mighty particular about The Code around here."

" 'The Code'?"

"Unwritten rules binding the flying brethren and sistren. You know. Strict adherence to orders. Moderation in all things. Don't make waves -– politically, socially, officially or unofficially. And never, ever admit that you do what you do because you get a kick out of it, because it's so friggin' _fun_."

Nilani elbowed him in the ribs. "And you, of course, honor those rules with every fiber of your being. Why is it that they can't stand him but adore you?"

"Because, madam, I am the got-damnedest most diplomatic sumbitch you will ever have the misfortune to meet." Beach tipped an imaginary hat and waggled sandy brows at her. "Also just about the only Earther on the planet, and for damn sure the only Texan, so I'm allowed a few eccentricities by default. Now your boy, on the other hand -– " he whistled as the boy in question executed a particularly tricky move on the overhead bar, " -– your boy is not exactly known for his subtlety and tact. He's a born pilot and he don't apologize for the fact that what comes easy for him, most of 'em have to work at. Make things worse, you got all the people who resent the fact that he's carrying a slug in his belly; that includes the ones who're just jealous, on top of the ones who think he's needlessly endangering the whatchacallit. Adds up to an awful lot of folks he don't sit too well with."

Nilani digested that. "You may be right," she said slowly.

" 'Course I am. I'd swear to it on a stack of bibles by my Momma's grave."

"I thought your mother was teaching at university on New London."

"And so she is, bless her nineteenth-century-loving heart. But she has a spot staked out in the family plot back home in Plainview and I'll swear by it and over it and around it till the cows come home."

_Cows?_ Beach's deliberately regional references and dry, rather warped sense of humor often confounded her. When they had first met, she had asked him for informal tutelage to keep her oral skills current; having taken Federation Standard as an Institute elective she spoke it capably but without idiom. Patiently, laconically, he taught her phrases that were either total nonsense or so scatalogical in nature that she blushed for days afterward thinking of the translations, which popped into her head at unfortunate moments. Beach himself was fluent in several Trill dialects, thanks to years of ferocious study, though he usually imbued them with a decided drawl that intensified suspiciously when he addressed his employers and other dignitaries.

Or when he was teasing her in his own language. "I think," Nilani said severely, noting the barely suppressed laughter in the languid grey eyes, "that you are talking piffle. No wonder you and Torias get along so well."

"We Texans like ornery critters. 'Sides, he's one of the few Trills I know who doesn't speak FedStan like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth."

"I just hope he's not picking up that dreadful accent you affect."

"Why, I'll have you know this is the President's own Standard. Anyone who tells you different is a four-flushing egg-sucking barditch-dwelling sheepherding base-on-balls liar."

"Hppp!" The giggle bubbled up without warning. Nilani smacked her friend on the arm, and they watched the rest of Torias' bizarre ritual in companionable silence.

Now he was hopping like an electroprodded frog from one end of the gym to the other, gathering himself and then uncoiling into a limb-flailing forward lunge. With a final leap, he came to a grinding upright halt, fighting for air.

His shirt was transparent with sweat, clinging to the hard planes of his torso, the dips and swells of his shoulders and arms. After a few half-hearted stretches, Torias staggered over to their corner, blearily glaring at them as they applauded and catcalled.

"Are you two quite finished lazing around?" His chest heaved as he braced hands on knees.

Beach and Nilani exchanged amused glances. "Nope," said Beach. "Thought we'd just set a spell longer. Watching you put yourself through your damn fool paces is a sight of work, let me tell you."

Recovering quickly, Torias straightened up. "Some of us aren't metabolic freaks who eat the most appalling garbage and still barely cast a shadow sideways," he retorted, bending over to kiss Nilani. "Mm, hello, you. Sorry if I stink."

She wrinkled her nose exaggeratedly at him, but secretly she loved the way he smelled: an impossibly rich aroma of male musk and the sharp tang of clean sweat, and beneath that the complex spicy-sweet note of the peculiar chemistry between symbiont and host. As he leaned toward her, she could feel the heat emanating from him in waves. Fascinated, she watched as a rivulet of sweat ran down the corded neck to pool in the hollow of his throat, where his pulse fluttered visibly and propelled a secondary tributary down his chest, into the cleft between rounded masses of hard muscle. Nilani swallowed, suddenly warm.

Torias left to shower and change. She watched him go, admiring the shift and play in his calves. Beach snorted, startling her, and leaned back on his elbows.

"So," he drawled, sleepy grey eyes glinting in amusement, "y'all picked out your china yet?"

Nilani looked a puzzled question at him, but he refused to answer, only chuckling to himself.


	9. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 9

"Raise your elbow, please." The orderly, a Guardian acolyte, adjusted the monitoring device encircling her left upper arm, lessening the tension in the wrap and straightening out a wrinkle that had been pinching her skin.

Nilani sighed in relief. "Thank you, Cerrol; that was driving me crazy."

"I know," said the orderly with a small smile. "I would have done it sooner, but -– "

"Integration quarantine, I know," she finished for him. "It's all right. But it's been over ninety-six hours. Surely if there were going to be any further reactions they would have occurred by now; do I still need to be kept for observation?"

He looked up from calibrating the instruments. "Dr. Kahn, you know I can't alter the protocol."

" 'Dr. Kahn'? Oh, come on, Cerrol, we've known each other since we were children!"

Wrong thing to say, Nilani realized with a slight flush of embarrassment as something undefinable cloaked his expression. They'd known each other since candidate selection... from which Cerrol Ocas, whose perpetually mournful countenance apologized in advance for his clumsiness and tongue-tied shyness, had been dismissed after the second term. His parents had reapplied over the next several cycles; by the time he had regained admission, he was already years behind his former contemporaries. After an indifferent academic career that had been dogged by a growing string of lukewarm evaluations, he voluntarily withdrew from the Institute, and she had lost contact with him until now.

"That would be disrespectful, Doctor," he admonished, and she let him save face behind the formality. "If you require nothing else, your attorney will be here shortly. I will be available should you need me."

"Thank you." The orderly nodded and exited silently. Nilani settled back, grateful to be alone again. Closing her eyes, she considered once again how very odd it was that one never seemed to get inured to the strangenesses of being newly joined.

Memories not yet her own danced across her thoughts, spurring a brief swirl of vertigo-like disorientation. Falling back on the training that had consumed so much of her life thus far, she suppressed them, relegating them for further inspection later on when she had more control.

All right; start with the easiest thing to handle, the physical differences. Her hand moved to her abdomen, which felt awkwardly rigid and heavy. The long transverse incision burned with an echo of pain when she brushed it. Hesitantly Nilani touched the firm mass now lodged within her, its shape clearly outlined beneath skin and muscle that tautened as she raised her head. The symbiont wriggled, stimulating cramps and a sudden urge to urinate. It would pass within a few weeks, she knew, while her internal architecture adjusted to the unaccustomed pressure.

Whole monographs had been written extolling the virtues and philosophies of joining. What none of them ever mentioned was that, at first, anyway, being joined felt a lot like a bad case of PMS.

_Wonder what Cerrol would say if I told him that. Probably think I was humoring him_. Nilani was still laughing to herself when the sound of a throat being cleared made her open her eyes.

A stooped beak-nosed old man with a stringy wattled neck, his white hair in stark contrast to his faded spots, stood in the open doorway. Cautiously he made his way across the room. Trailing him was a neatly dressed much younger man, who handed him a briefcase and then stepped back, waiting quietly. The old man set the briefcase on the endtable; taking a seat beside her bed, he gravely inclined his head toward her.

Nilani squinted at him. "Gods, Pellor, you look like hell," she said at last, a reluctant smile creeping over her face.

"Good to see you too, my friend," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"I'd forgotten how much I hate this part."

"Thanks very much," the old man said dryly. "All you joineds are the same; if you would consult with your lawyers more frequently there wouldn't be so much for each new host to deal with at once."

"I know, I know. Shouldn't you be retired by now?"

"As a matter of fact, my great-grandson here" -– he indicated the young man, who nodded -– "has been preparing to take over the handling of your account. I trained him myself in the particulars of your estate, so you'll be in capable hands. We've got a lot to catch up on; your predecessor wasn't very interested in business matters."

Nilani sighed. "So I realized, when I read the transition contract. Give me the short version, then. Good news or bad news?"

"Oh, for the most part, quite good, quite good. Kahn's holdings have done extremely well, you'll be happy to hear."

"Well enough to cover your retainer and the family life-interest, I gather."

"Certainly. Complex intergenerational legalities are fascinating and intellectually rewarding, but one must after all eat, and preferably with some measure of the comfort to which one has become accustomed. Shall I go on?"

"I suppose. Wait, you said 'for the most part'?"

"Ah." The old man bowed briefly, steepling withered fingers over his lips.

"Don't say 'Ah' and nod sagely, Pellor Joon, you piddled on me and spoiled a perfectly lovely tano silk dress at your naming ceremony when you were three. Out with it, what's the bad news?"

The birdlike head tilted to one side. "I don't recall your being quite so rude before," the old man said merrily. "I shall put it to the exigencies of youth." Joon settled back into his chair. "Well, it's not actually so much 'bad' as it is tedious, for all parties involved. Do you remember Livor and Gellan Emos?"

"Of course. Tamira's children." Mentally she ticked off names. "Five hosts ago."

"Specifically, the children who were born before Tamira was joined to Kahn."

"Er, yes. What's the problem?"

"You'll recall that Tamira drafted her own will -– against my great-great-grandmother Sareya's advice, I might add."

The words triggered a shadow-memory. "That's right," Nilani said. "I was so intimidated by the thought of having to deal with the estate. Even when Sareya had simplified everything to the point where all that was basically required of me was a signature retinal scan and voiceprint, I kept putting off our scheduled sessions and avoided her for nearly the last twenty years of my life. I wrote that will only because the Symbiosis Commission threatened me with censure and garnishment."

"Well, in this case it might have been better if you hadn't. As your legal administrator, Sareya would of course have been appointed Kahn's executor and been able to control most of the estate in accordance with the symbiont intestacy succession laws. However, Tamira also signed over to Livor and Gellan a durable power of attorney, possibly because they convinced her that they could save her the trouble of dealing with 'those messy business details.' Their descendants are now asserting that they are eligible to not only claim all of Tamira's personal property but also to apply for the bypass trust from Kahn's estate as residuary legatees -– thereby avoiding taxes on the bulk of their inheritance. Shaky, but the wording of the standardized document Tamira used is vague enough to be open to that interpretation."

"So why have they waited so long? Surely the longer the proceedings... well, proceed, the more they have to outlay in the end."

"They can't seem to come to an agreement between themselves about how the estate is to be divided, in the remote chance that they should actually win the petition. The descendants are in the unenviable position of having to spend the credits their branch of the family have sought for so long to gain. And in the meanwhile the taxes on Tamira's property are still compounding interest nicely."

"Meaning," Nilani sighed, "that when they finally give up squabbling, and when Tamira's will is finally probated, that I am going to be pounced on not only by the government but also by you, sitting in the corner waiting for your fat slice to be dished up." She smiled ruefully. "As my husband Torias would say, anyone who tries to shovel his own legal shit has an idiot for a lawyer and a fool for a client."

"Crude, but essentially correct."

That out of the way, Joon droned on and on about the state of her various holdings. Nilani, exasperated, suspected that even Kahn was developing a headache and began to think that maybe Tamira had had the right idea after all.


	10. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 10

"Tell me again where we're going tonight, and why it is exactly that _I_ have to go?"

Torias stood scowling in front of the full-length mirror, yanking at the tiny fasteners of his dress shirt. Nilani moved behind him and caught his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from the hopelessly askew collar tab and trapping them against his belly.

"We are going to a recital during which the Silau Antiphonal will be attempted at the Temple for the first time in nearly ten years. You, darling husband, are going because we have been invited by my mentor and because I would like to show him that, contrary to popular Institute belief, you do indeed walk fully upright and can sometimes refrain from beating me into submission between flights."

He made a face at her in the mirror, watching while she adjusted his shirt. "Forcing me practically at disruptor point into this straitjacket and making me listen to some screeching freak is going to prove that I am a serenely suave and civilized individual?"

"You're beyond hope for that. But you can at least look decorative and make polite noises at Noren. There, that's much better."

Nilani let her hands drop around his waist and nuzzled into the side of his neck; together they peered at his reflected image. The formal tunic though seldom worn was nonetheless superbly tailored, draping its silver-shot charcoal over Torias' broad chest. The stark white shirt peeking out beneath it emphasized sunbrushed cheekbones and made a startling contrast for the leaf-green eyes.

"Not bad," he said grudgingly.

"You do scrub up rather nicely. Now, will you promise to behave tonight?"

The dark head dipped as he feathered a kiss on her bare shoulder; she closed her eyes with a small sigh and turned inside the gathering circle of his arms. "Can't." His mouth, warmly searching out the sensitive places along her collarbone, came to rest at the the suddenly leaping pulse at the hollow of her neck. "Not with you... sitting next to me... in that dress..."

The crowd buzzed restlessly. For once nearly everyone was seated on time, and Nilani and Torias' last minute arrival necessitated a litany of "Excuse me"s and "Pardon"s as they snaked their way past resentfully shifting knees toward the pair of unoccupied seats in the center of the row. Noren Garet, long ensconced, merely nodded as they settled in beside him.

"Traffic," she murmured succinctly, a small lie she hoped would serve as both excuse and apology. It was partly true; by the time they had hastily rearranged their clothing and she had straightened her hair and makeup, the streethopper they finally managed to catch had had to drop them off a quarter kilometer away because of the throngs outside.

"Who's that?" asked Torias, indicating the roped-off section a few rows in front of them.

"Critics." They were present in full force; evidently even the outlying colonies had sent representatives. "They'll have spent the last few weeks sharpening their knives."

His curiosity heightened visibly. "Are they expecting it to be that bad?"

"On the contrary," said Garet, leaning over. "I'd wager that most of them are hoping it will be that good."

"Mm. What's so damned special about this piece? They've been playing it endlessly on all the arts nets. You can't even go to a restaurant these days without having it piped in."

Nilani was mildly astonished that he would even recognize it. "At home, he listens only to slam fusion at a volume guaranteed to shatter the neighbors' eardrums," she told Garet. "If he really likes a song, he'll play it on a continuous loop for hours at a time. Even worse, sometimes he sings along."

Garet quirked an eyebrow at her but spoke to Torias. "Of course you realize that's a studio recording made in an acoustically controlled holographic environment."

"Same thing, only more precise; surely that's better."

"Hardly, darling. See up there," Nilani pointed at the two deep alcoves, recessed into the walls at angles to one another, that flanked the stage just below the curve of the high-arching domed ceiling. "The piece was written specifically for this hall. When this was still a place of worship hundreds of years ago, those were the chancels from which the cantors sang the summonses. Nowadays they're box seats for royalty, distinguished guests, anyone who's more interested in being seen than in actually listening to the music. Silau was the first –- and so far only –- composer to incorporate them into a performance. The Antiphonal calls for a full chorus in each of those alcoves as well as a solo soprano onstage."

Scrolling through the program notes in the armrest reader, Torias whistled softly. "8.5-second echo from center stage without the acoustic baffles. Must be a nightmare to coordinate all that."

Garet nodded. "Exactly. Neither chorus nor the soloist can hear one another until the various echoes have bounced back. Every performer has to know when the sounds from each part will dissipate at what volume, and everything must be timed precisely so that the echoes don't simply cancel one another out or summate into deafening cacophany. It takes months of rehearsal to prepare the chorus alone. Whether Silau was a genius or a madman is widely debated; in my opinion he was more than a little of both."

" 'This evening's performance marks the return of Chi'pah Na'Rel of the Vulcan Conservatory to the Temple Auditorium for the first time since Silau's _Antiphonal_ was last mounted here in 1275,'" Torias read. "He was the one? What happened?"

"Ah." Garet took his time in replying. "Hard to say, as he has consistently refused to speak about it in interviews. Quite a disaster, really, from both the artistic and professional standpoint. Na'Rel was an immensely popular performer and the critics' golden son, a rare combination of charisma and true musicality; his coming here was a highly publicized event.

"In the performance he twice called for the piece to be started over. The third time, things seemed to go better, but then the parts began again to go out of synch and the remote conductors signalled frantically for the choruses to stop. But of course Na'Rel couldn't hear, at least at first, and he must have been so intent on going on that he kept singing, even long after he had to have known the other singers were no longer with him. He finished the opening movement on his own, bowed to the audience, then simply left."

"The critical dissection afterward was merciless," added Nilani. "He hasn't sung in public until now, as far as I know. Frankly, I'd be amazed if he were still capable of the technical demands of the piece."

"Mm." Torias fell silent and went back to reading the program notes until the house lights flashed, then faded. Nilani settled into her seat and briefly squeezed Garet's hand in anticipation, but before she could say anything the onstage entrance was sliding open and without any fanfare Chi'pah Na'Rel emerged.

Tall and slender, as was typical of the Vulcan castrati, he seemed to glide rather than walk in the floor-length green robe that shimmered about him. Yet the ethereal impression was belied when he halted and bowed his head: the posture emphasized the breadth of his abnormally developed chest, and such was the gravity of his demeanor that it was as though his concentration alone were anchoring him to the stage.

The burst of applause that had greeted his appearance spattered out. Furious _hssst_s instantly suppressed the usual assault of coughs and hawking throats and the audience again subsided into a reverently strained silence.

Eyes closed, the chi'pah lifted his head in what looked like a gesture of either pain or ecstasy. Because of the sound delay it was not immediately clear that he was the source of the pure wordless simplicity, devoid even of vibrato, that unfurled softly and billowed to fill the confines of the hall. Dissonant notes from one chorus and a slow ostenuto from the other rose to meet it in a rough caress of clashing sound, establishing in the opening section the conflict that segued seamlessly into the fugue.

Asserting themselves, the three parts chased one another and claimed dominance in turn: a fusillade of hard trumpetlike phrases from the first chorus, which itself fragmented and then at times recombined with a shout; the insistent repetition, as though in complete disregard for meter or harmony, from the second chorus; and above it all the magnificent voice that refused to be subsumed by the assault which it seemed alternately to elude and to challenge.

Now whispering, now ringing, the voice cast its siren spell. Subtly, discord resolved into euphony as first one, then the other chorus was seduced into a beckon and call that was a gently mocking reflection of the earlier confrontation. Back and forth the voices quested until the many followed and then joined and then submitted to the one, burnishing a final chord into rapturous silence beneath the triumphantly soaring swell. Na'Rel burst into a fiendishly difficult coloratura passage, made even more demanding by its decrescendo into a sustained pianissimo. The last impossibly long-held note ended almost imperceptibly, leaving its author as he had begun, with eyes closed and head bowed.

The audience was utterly still for a good ten seconds after the echo wisped into evanescence. And then a sound ferocious as ripping canvas tore through the auditorium as a thousand people who had been holding their collective breath for the past hour arose in thunderous waves, applauding and shouting, many of them weeping with release.

Bowing, the Vulcan departed the stage. For long minutes the applause went on, then finally organized itself into the rhythmic clapping that was the time-honored though vulgar demand for an encore, but still he did not appear. When it was clear Na'Rel did not intend to return, the house lights came up at last; reluctantly, even a bit uncertainly, people moved to leave.

Nilani found her neck and shoulders stiff with tension and rolled her head to loosen them. Stealing a glance at Torias, she was struck by the intensity in the half-lidded eyes that still stared at the vacated stage.

"Would you like to meet him?" Garet asked. He smiled. "Privilege granted to those who donate astronomical sums in order to get their names inscribed on a little plaque in the atrium."

"Yes," answered Torias unexpectedly; he began shouldering his way through the crowd toward the front of the auditorium. Exchanging a glance and a small shrug, Nilani and Garet followed.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she murmured into his ear.

Garet looked at her sideways, clearly bemused. "I think your young man might surprise you."

She blinked. But then they were swept up into the backstage chaos and there was no opportunity to question him further.

Everywhere around them were chorus members, their robes flapping in various states of disarray. Most jabbered animatedly, raising their voices in order to be heard above the din but succeeding only in adding to it; here and there, small groups erupted into bawdy song –- fueled no doubt by the Andorian ale they were downing in reckless quantities. Stage crew breaking down lights and other equipment ducked in and out among the merry singers, dodging here a sweeping emphatic arm, there a hand balancing a drink and a tiny plate overloaded with food.

In the confusion Nilani and Garet caught up with Torias, who had managed to secure a generous portion from the buffet as well as a place in line among the other well‑wishers. Conversation was impossible, so they stood patiently and shuffled forward until the doorman admitted them at last.

The anteroom rang with quiet after the din outside. "Thank goodness!" said Nilani, working her jaw to relieve the tightness in her ears.

"Indeed." Garet picked his way around the flowers already piled on every surface, finally leaning carefully against the edge of a table. "So. Not quite like a holorecording, was it?"

Torias laughed easily and without resentment. "You were right. I'm no musician, but even I could tell that that was damned impressive."

"What did you find most 'impressive' about it?" Garet's voice was noncommittal but, Nilani realized, he was watching her husband with much the same look of intense concentration he reserved for crucial experiments.

"Mm." Torias' gaze seemed to turn inward. "I guess... partly because of the technical aspect; I've enough of an engineering background to appreciate just how difficult it must have been to fit everything together. But no, that's not it at all. What impressed the hell out of me was that this man opened the deepest part of his heart like he was daring the world to reject what it saw in there, and it was fucking beautiful."

Garet cocked his head. "You don't subscribe to the accepted notion, then, that Vulcans are a dispassionate, stoical people?"

"Anyone who says Vulcans don't feel emotion - or anyway _that_ Vulcan," Torias said belligerently, "is deluded. If he didn't feel anything there'd be no way he'd be able to do..." he waved in the general direction of the stage, "... that."

"In a way you are correct," a slightly husky voice interjected.

Like guilty schoolchildren, they spun to face the celebrated singer who was regarding them from the entrance to the private dressing room.

Garet cleared his throat. "How do you mean, Chi'pah?"

"It is not entirely true that Vulcans do not feel emotion; instead, we have learned to utilize emotions as tools rather than to be ruled by them."

"Bullshit," Torias insisted. Three sets of eyebrows flew up. "Er... I mean, without emotional investment, without personal risk, it'd be like that holorecording: technically perfect but dead boring. You can't tell me that what you did tonight was merely 'utilizing a tool.'"

The Vulcan regarded him impassively for a long moment. "Tell me, Mister..."

"Dax."

"Mister Dax, what is your profession?"

"Test pilot for experimental craft."

"I see. When did you learn to fly?"

Torias grinned. "Can't remember –- I probably drove my parents crazy asking for lessons when I was a kid. Spent every moment I could in the family 'hopper. I was instrument rated when I was 13, qualified for multicraft rating at 15."

"And when you first started, your instructors proceeded in a stepwise fashion, did they not?"

"Sure. Months of learning nothing but the principles of lift, or engine trim, or shield configuration, and so on."

"But when you actually flew on your own, you did not consciously break the motions down into each step."

"Of course not. By then it was as though all I had to do was think where I wanted my ship to go, and it would."

"By its very nature, your calling entails great risk. Do you not worry that a single mistake could have catastrophic consequences?"

"I can't think about that. If I concentrated on the potential dangers rather than on the task at hand, I might be paralyzed by fear or indecision. Hell, if I thought too hard about it, I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning."

"You are good at what you do?"

"Yes. When I am up there, in a totally new, untested bird, I feel as though no one else in the world could fly it better."

"Overconfidence can be dangerous."

"False modesty can be just as dangerous, and even more egotistical."

"In other words, the tools you began with have been so fundamentally integrated that flying became an extension of yourself, operating effortlessly and smoothly as though with its own freedom and wisdom and revelation. And not to do so would be to sever the best part of yourself."

"Right," Torias said slowly. "So that's why you did it, why you risked your career and your reputation to come back here." The Vulcan merely inclined his head. "Funny."

One dark eyebrow hitched into a circumflex. "What is funny?"

Ignoring the faintly amused tone, Torias said, "That a eunuch would have more balls than most people I know."

The black-on-black eyes narrowed, and for a second matched the hard glitter of intense green in what Nilani would later swear was a smile. Then the Vulcan bowed again, and without another word turned and swept back to the private dressing room.

* * *

_Thanks to Macedon (aka Joe) for letting me borrow his concept of the Vulcan chi'pain, which he invented for a marvelous trilogy of stories featuring Jake Sisko. Unless someone out there knows how to unearth the old a.s.c. archives, though, I'm afraid they've been lost to time.  
_


	11. Yours Must Ransom Me: Chapter 11

"Darling?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Kahn passed an egg packet yesterday."

" 'S nice." The arm about her waist tightened in a vise grip as he came fully awake. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. I put it in gel stasis."

"Mmm." There was a long silence. Torias rolled over onto his back and she tucked herself against him, her head finding its place on the muscular round of his shoulder. "You know what this means, don't you?" he said at last.

"Yes, of course. It's just a little hard to believe. After twenty-one lifetimes, one doesn't exactly expect -– "

"I suppose we'll have to inform the Commission," he said, with no particular emphasis.

In the dark, Nilani had no way to judge his expression, but took reassurance from the strong embrace that clasped her solidly to him. "Maybe we should wait a bit before telling them."

"Wait? For what?"

"Well, for one thing, to see if Dax accepts the overture. I'd hate to have to undergo all the tests and inquiries if there were a chance it might refuse. There have been documented incidences of inappropriate core bondings -– there was one case where it turned out that one of the symbionts was conflicted about it and was psychologically bullied into going through with the ceremony by the other -– "

Torias began to shake, silently at first, then escalating into full-blown laughter. Partly relieved, partly wondering if hysteria were contagious, she joined in; he was by then whooping and nearly in tears.

When he could speak, he pulled her close, burying his mouth in her hair. "Darling, darling, my poor, poor darling. You've been spending too much time lately talking legalese with Joon. Surely you didn't think I would run away shrieking in the night at the mere idea of Dax and Kahn's being joined?"

"We've only just gotten married ourselves! I thought -– "

"You thought that was the extent of my commitment."

"Torias, you don't even want children, but you're willing to go through with this?"

"This is different. At least we won't need to find a womb surrogate and learn how to change diapers."

"Very funny." She brooded for a while. Torias was so quiet that she thought he had fallen back asleep, but then his hand moved to lightly scratch blunt nails up and down her back. "You know, we've never talked about having children."

"Mm." The delightful scratching continued and she stretched and arched into his caress. "Do _you_ want to have children?"

"Oh. I guess I'd always thought I'd have a baby before I was joined. Easier all around, you know. But then I got word about Kahn, and you came along and swept me off my feet and into your bed practically after we met... "

"As I recall, you weren't exactly unwilling to be swept."

"Of course not, silly. But we haven't really taken the time to discuss any long term plans."

"I suppose not." The hand came to rest at the back of her neck and rubbed expertly at the knots it found there. "What about now?"

"Now? Well, I'm still physically recuperating from the joining. I won't have to worry about pressure atrophy for a few years yet, but I doubt the Commission would approve it this soon anyway."

"Mm. Don't take this the wrong way, but... good."

"You really don't want children?" Torias was silent for a while, still kneading her neck and back until her spine felt as though it had turned to liquid. "Not saying forever, understand. It's just... right now I don't want to share you with anyone."

* * *

_Good thing I'm not claustrophobic,_ Nilani thought with a slight shudder as she looked uneasily about the cavern. Judging by the weird echoes, the open space seemed to go on for quite some distance but it was difficult to tell; there were conical lamps along the walls at regular intervals but the low rough ceiling smothered the illumination from each of them into a faint circle that did little to penetrate the darkness.

She was floating naked in one of the dozens of small, nearly identical pools that dotted the cavern. Torias sat in another pool adjacent to hers, facing her, so that they were separated by a distance of several meters; with the poor visibility, Nilani could just make out his features.

"Nobody told me what this... stuff would be like," she whispered fiercely, though as far as she could tell, there was no one around to overhear. The greyish-brown fluid was lukewarm and unpleasantly viscid, dense enough that she had no trouble bobbing at the surface; it was odorless and presumably harmless but she took care to keep her face out of it.

"Disgusting, isn't it? Look." Torias lifted his arm; the substance left no trace on his skin, instead clinging to itself and pulling back into the pool with a soft _splip_.

"When does the ceremony start? What do we do?"

He shrugged. "I was hoping you'd know. I mean, I know neither of us has gone through this before, but surely at least one of your previous hosts has talked to or read about someone who has?"

"Oddly enough, no. There's really not much in the literature about the ceremony, and the few joineds who have gone through with it don't seem to have been very communicative."

"No one recently, I take it?"

"The last was about thirty years ago, a musician named Kamalu Tiris and her wife Larina Savarin. According to the records, they've lived on Amari'ah Colony ever since, but I wasn't able to get in touch with them."

"Ooooohhh... spoooooky," intoned Torias. "The men and women in white robes are conspiring to scare us out of going through with it."

"Don't be silly, darling." She tried to splash him but succeeded only in stirring up a torpid wave in the muck, which settled almost immediately back into its peculiar smoothness. "All the Guardian said was that the others would be arriving soon. I suppose they'll tell us then."

"What others? Other Guardians? I wish they'd -– gah!"

"Torias, don't do that!"

"Sorry, darling, but something just brushed my leg."

"Well, maybe it was -– whooo!" Nilani jumped as her foot was bumped by -– what? She peered hard at the turbid surface until her eyes burned with strain, but could see nothing.

"What's in these pools, anyway?"

"No one really knows."

"No one? You and Garet have spent who knows how many years and my tax credits studying the symbionts, and you're not sure?"

"We study their neural systems, not their environment. And it's not like it hasn't been tried. Something about the composition of the liquid completely disables any kind of exploratory equipment sent down there, and its molecular structure is too unstable to be replicated in the lab. They've even tried more primitive methods, like sending a diver down in a neurosensor suit, but the readings keep coming back garbled and the divers themselves seem to be confused about what they've experienced. So no one has any idea how deep these pools are, or where the symbionts live in them, or even how many there actually are. It's very frustrating -– "

Nilani stopped, astonished, as dozens of slugs appeared silently at the pool's surface, circling her and moving in complicated patterns without any discernible effort. "Um, darling?"

"Don't ask me, they're over here, too. Ow! Hey!"

"What? What happened?"

"I don't know. I tried to touch one and it zapped my hand with this... blue light, or something."

She tamped down the urge to panic. _They won't harm us, they know we're harboring symbionts. Don't they?_ As if in response, she felt movement in her belly as Kahn began to pulse in time with the free slugs' intricate choreography.

Almost as abruptly as they had appeared, the symbionts submerged and vanished without so much as a splash. Kahn stilled within her, but the rhythmic movement persisted in her heartbeat.

"That's it?"

Torias sounded as incredulous as she felt. Experimentally, Nilani swept an arm out in a circle but encountered nothing. "I was expecting something a little more spectacular, but I think so; they seem to be gone."

"So what do we do now?"

Before she could reply, the Guardian who had escorted them to the cavern returned and bowed. The seemingly ageless woman helped them out of their pools in turn, then gestured for them to follow.

Exchanging eyebrow shrugs, Nilani and Torias obediently fell in behind her as she led them to a dimly lit but more open space. Cool rough stone underfoot gave way to a pliant, moist heat as water began to pour over them like tropical rain. The Guardian bowed again and backed away with a small smile, leaving them alone again.

Nilani tilted her face upward, letting the water soak her hair. Her skin seemed to be hypersensitive; the continual streams running over her body felt like caressing fingers. Sensing Torias behind her, she leaned back against his muscled chest and gasped.

Always warm, his skin seemed to sear hers. He clasped her tightly, as though trying to imprint her body onto his own. The insistent pulse radiated outward from her center until she could feel it in her lips and fingertips, in her bones, in the very blood cells that rushed through her veins, and she knew with a surety that he felt the same.

Turning, Nilani claimed his mouth with a kiss hard enough to bruise, tasting him, inhaling the intoxicating amalgam of their combined scents. Breath and pulse quickened in unison as body seemed to fuse to body, melting, burning with arousal that was almost pain. Impatiently she pulled Torias down to the cavern floor and they cried out together as she opened to him, realizing with a shock that each could sense exactly what the other felt, all at once.

She entered him, encompassed by astonishing heat-slick flesh. He surrounded her, panting as she impaled him halfway to the heart, wrapping legs around her waist to draw her ever deeper. Ancient mind entwined with ancient mind, suddenly no longer alien and unknowable as they abandoned conscious thought, willingly surrendering to the dissolving of their separate selves into a shared entity that was exquisitely, shatteringly overwhelming.

Shudders rippled endlessly through her. "Don't let go of me," she whispered hoarsely, clinging to the solid weight of him bearing her to the yielding floor of the cavern, water swirling over and around the indistinguishable tangle of their limbs.

Breathing raggedly, he closed his teeth over the junction of her neck and shoulder hard enough to mark her to blood. "Never," he rasped.

* * *

_5/26/14_ _To be continued. I started writing this shortly after "Rejoined" aired in October 1995; it proved to be a little too unwieldy and overwhelming for my 20-something-year-old self to handle, so it's been locked away in a figurative drawer since then. Resurrecting it has been an interesting exercise__ -– there's been the requisite cringing at and ruthless slashing of my overwritten prose, of course, but I've been pleasantly surprised to find the germ of a decent story (or at least pieces of it) buried somewhere in the whole mess._

_I've perpetrated a few acts of physiology that directly contradict some of the more implausible med/sci-babble TPTB have heaped onto the hapless Trill. Trace Hemenover's **DS9 Encyclopedia and Lexicon** provided invaluable bits of information I'd either forgotten or never known; any inconsistencies with canon are entirely my fault (or, in certain cases, entirely deliberate)._


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